Present day
Le Rêve Sucré was not a bakery. It was a statement.
The walls were a sterile, intimidating white, the air smelled less like sugar and more like money, and the confections on display looked less like food and more like architectural models.
It was, in short, the most pretentious and joyless bakery in New York, which naturally made it Chloe Wexler’s first choice.
I was seated alone in the private tasting room, a small, velvet-roped alcove that was probably designed to feel exclusive but just felt suffocating. My binder was open to Tab C-4, “Cake: Logistics & Flavor Matrix. ”
I had a spreadsheet cross-referencing Chloe’s preferred “Celestial Serenity” aesthetic with the bakery’s structural capabilities. I was prepared.
The delicate chime of the shop’s door was followed by the low murmur of voices. And then they were there, filling the small doorway.
Marcus and Chloe.
Chloe swept in, dressed in a cream-colored silk jumpsuit, her expression one of profound offense, as if the bakery had insulted her personally. Marcus followed, his gaze immediately finding mine. He smiled, a hesitant, familiar crinkling of his eyes, and the air in the tiny room evaporated.
“Ava,” he said, his voice too warm.
“Ms. Wexler. Mr. Thorne,” I greeted them, my voice all business. “If you’ll take a seat, Chef Antoine will be in momentarily with the first profiles. “
“Let’s make this quick,” Chloe said, sitting but refusing to take off her sunglasses. “I have a lymphatic drainage massage at two. “
A moment later, Chef Antoine, a man who looked as severe as his pastries, wheeled in a cart. On it sat three small, perfect cakes.
“Today,” he announced, his accent thick, “we begin with three flavor profiles. A classic Tahitian vanilla bean with a Swiss meringue buttercream, a dark chocolate-raspberry with a champagne reduction, and our signature—a white chocolate and passionfruit mousse. “
I dutifully opened my binder, pen poised. “Chloe, the passionfruit mousse aligns well with the light, ethereal quality you—”
“I don’t eat sugar,” Chloe stated, cutting me off.
Chef Antoine’s mustache twitched. “Madame?”
“It’s vulgar,” she said, waving a dismissive hand. “Ava, you’re my liaison. That’s what I’m paying you for. You taste them. ” She paused, then pinned me with a look from over her designer frames. “And it *cannot* be ‘sweet. ‘ I don’t care about the taste, I care about the *look*. It just needs to look good for the photos. “
I stared at her. “Chloe, the *taste* is rather the whole point of a wedding cake. “
“The point,” she corrected, “is the *image*. I’ll be fasting for a week before the wedding. I won’t be eating it. “
Marcus shifted, the first sign of life he’d shown. “Chloe, honey, that’s a bit much. Just try the chocolate one. “
“And risk a breakout, Marcus. No. “
The silence that followed was excruciating. Chef Antoine looked like he was about to commit an act of violence. I, on the other hand, was trapped.
Marcus, sensing the impasse, turned on the charm. He leaned forward, covering her hand with his, but his eyes stayed on me.
“If anyone can make it happen, it’s Ava,” he said, his voice dropping to that low, intimate hum that still echoed in my bones. “She always did have a way of making the impossible seem. . . simple. “
My pen froze over the page. He was doing it again—using our past as a bridge in his present.
“I specialize in logistics, Mr. Thorne,” I said, my voice tight.
“Marcus, please,” he pushed, that soft, apologetic smile playing on his lips. “After all this time. . . don’t you think we can skip the formalities, Aves?”
*Aves. *
It hit me just as it had in the meeting, a tiny, poisoned dart. I flinched, a small, betraying twitch of my shoulder. His smile faltered, a flicker of—what. Regret. Guilt?—crossing his face.
“I. . . I don’t think that’s appropriate,” I managed.
“I do,” said a new voice from the doorway.
My head snapped up. Rhys Callaghan was leaning against the doorframe, camera in hand, his leather jacket looking profoundly out of place against the sterile white. He must have arrived early, before any of us, and had been watching. The whole time.
He pushed off the doorframe and sauntered in, that infuriating smirk already in place. His gaze swept over the tiny cakes, then me, then Marcus.
“This,” he said, his voice a low, amused rumble, “is exactly what I call ‘scheduled joy. ‘” He looked past me to Chloe. “So, you’re not even going to *eat* the cake at your own wedding?”
“It’s none of your business,” Chloe snapped.
“Oh, but it is,” Rhys countered, clicking his camera on. “I’m the photographer. And this. . . this is a *story*. ” He zoomed in on the untouched cakes. “The bride who hates cake. The groom who just wants everyone to get along. And the planner, forced to eat her feelings. It’s gold, Jerry. Gold. “